


Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boys of Company B

by oonaseckar



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Alternate Universe - Music, F/M, Gen, M/M, Marching Band, Music, Musicians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Leader of the company marching band is not a role that Steve volunteered for, when he joined the Army.  Who is he kidding, he didn't volunteer as Captain America, neither!Responsibility just finds Steve, comes knocking looking for him.  If only a decent horn player would do the same, because both the marching band, and the unofficial swing band he's running, are in desperate need.And then this kid with a horn turns up...
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. they made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Don Ray/Hughie Prince song, same for first chapter title.

This guy walks in – right? - and, right there, he's the reason. Well, he's one o' the reasons, on account of they're in the ball-room. Well, it _used_ to be a ballroom, Steve's pretty sure –- of the disused wing of the local big-shot mansion house that Company B's commandeered, for the duration while they're perched on this rock the Founding Fathers couldn't wait to get the hell off of. And Company B uses it for practice ops and firing ranges and anything they don't got room for in the regular U.S. Army camp, on the other side of this little Northern British town.

And he's one of the reasons, and only one, on account of they're using the ball-room for auditions for the marching band from amongst the new batch of recruits what they've got sent over. And they're recruitin' because it's never a good idea for your hornman/vocalist to get the local bigwig's niece knocked right up the spout, not when he's all buddies with the fancy local families. Which someone shoulda really told of to that idiot Justin, before he went and did it, and that, in a nutshell, is why they're recruitin'. Not like _Tony_ couldn't have told the moron that, but a guy who needs basic instructions on pulling out and using a rubber and generally not fucking up your whole life, he probably don't have the brain cells to go consulting with Professor Love in the first place. No helping him, not now he's in the gunsights of the local squire if he ever sets foot back in this dinky little British county.

Officially, they're recruiting for a first trumpet, for the marching band, because you got to have chops on your instrument to get into the band. And if you're in the marching band, then you auto-qualify for the _real_ band. The real band, the swing band, the nearest thing they've got to competition for Glenn Miller and any other outfit burning up the hit parade.

But Sam can double up on the trumpet, and they don't have many tunes they need both horn and clarinet for anyhow. What they really need is a vocalist, and Steve knows that what they mean by that – or what Tony means by it, seeing as he kind of thinks he runs the show, no matter what any of the guys (frequently) tell him – is not just someone who can _sing_. Hell, Steve can carry a tune himself, if it comes to that. Scrubbed up real nice for the choir back in the day, and his gramma thought he was just darlin' in the surplice and cassock.

But he's shy in front of the mic, same as most of the guys, unless he's got a horn or a banjolele in his hands, or they stick him in front of the joanna. A bit of wood and catgut and brass alloy, tinkered with just so, somehow makes it easier, so it doesn't stick in the craw and make a feller blush tomato-like to be stood up in front of a crowd of hooting guys and thoughtful, considering dames, swaying all dreamy. It takes a special kind of personality to pull the job off, to give it some swing and put it over so the guys get big ideas and the dames indulge 'em a little and all hell lets loose, before the bandleader brings it down smooth and slow at the end of the night.. Basically it takes a _cocky little bastard,_ which is the complete job description that Tony has written down on a bit of crumpled-up army notepaper.

Actually, maybe he just writes it as this guy swaggers into the room, just jots it down real quick, so's Steve kind of misses it. It sure sums the guy up.

'Cause there's him, in a standard-issue jacket that don't fit right – Stores are right out of civvies, specially for new guys who roll up with their paperwork cock-eyed and their equipment missing en route, like Steve heard about the latest batch of transferred infantrymen. His boots are needing a shine, and his hair don't do nothing for him the way Sarge prescribes it, short and then a bit shorter than that. Guy like that, the dames like it long enough on him to get sissy-boy jibes from other fellas, that they only hiss and whisper 'cause they know their own girls'd like to put their hands on it and check, see if it's just as soft as it looks, if it flops back nice and bashful when they push a hand through. Hell, Steve himself, he can't help but wonder...


	2. without music, life would be a mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve thinks this guy might be ideal, for the band front-man they need.
> 
> And for anything else, he could be a huge mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Friedrich Nietzsche.

Hell _fire_. Steve himself needs to get a grip, He clears his throat and blushes a little brighter vermilion than he was already. There's always the odd fella that seems to get past his defenses, here and there. But he's learned how to put it out of his mind. And now he has his best girl, Peggy, the older daughter of the Lord of the manor. Or that's what they call him locally –- some kind of British joke about class, he thinks. Really, he's just some manufacturing bigwig that produces munitions and food stores and essential supplies for the war effort, aiming for a seat in Congress –- Parliament, Steve means to say –- and a gong, they call it a _gong_ , after the war. Fruit salad, they'd call it, back home.

But he seems like a good guy, for what Steve ever sees of him even when he visits with the family, the guy's always down in London or marching around his factories. All to the good, 'cause Peggy's Ma is bad enough, a real nice lady with real blue blood, they say, the aristocratic side of the match where her hubby brings home the bacon. But she's got an accent like the Queen, and these tiny little cups she has him drink fancy tea out of, and all he can think in her fancy-antsy drawing room, Sundays, is what would she think if she could see the grimy broke-down tenement he grew up in, the the poverty, the insufficiency, the squalor and the noise.

Not that there's anything wrong with home, with Brooklyn, and he'd die the death before he'd apologize for it. He's just not sure that _Mamma dear_ understands that not all nice upstanding U.S. soldiers have a direct traceable lineage back to the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving, that's all.

Peggy knows, and Peggy don't care, though, so that's nice and comfortable and comforting, it's some reassurance. She's his girl – at least, she is until she leaves for the WAAC training she's signed up for, but even _after_ that, she insists. Insists that there'll be letters and visits home and that she'll still be his girl, come what may and no matter what.

Which is nice and comfortable. He has his girl, and he's all set, no need to go thinking about stray guys who catch his eye. Not no more. Like _this_ one, who's standing right there in front of the whole gang, with his head cocked on one side and a considerin' look on his face. Just like _they're_ the ones being auditioned, to see if they're up to _his_ exacting standards, or if he'll take his pipes and go looking elsewhere for a bunch of bugle-players. His hair falls to one side, still a little too long for regulation even if Steve has a feeling he normally wears it in a goddamn ponytail. It looks like he has hazel eyes, from this distance. Steve's eyes are pretty good, they called him Deadeye in weapons training.

And he's not said a dicky-bird still, and it's riling Steve up. He feels the stew of unease in his belly and the too-ready too-easy quick flush of temper that used to get him in trouble, here and there. Before he buddied up with Sam, before the war and the Army, before Peggy. It was alright before his crazy growth spurt, just in time to get him past the induction and standards and training when he joined up. Back then, no matter if he'd started it and looked for trouble, he was always the littler guy, and somehow still in the right even when he was clearly, manifestly in the wrong.

These days, he looks like nothing but a big bully if he starts something, an irony since that's generally the sort of thing that gets him riled up in the first place. Anyway, he has to be crazy. This guy isn't starting something. He's here to audition for the band, Christ's sake.

“So, you guys are looking for a vocalist, am I right?” Apparently they've been sized up enough, and assessed as being at least worth this fellow's time, and a workout on the pipes. Damn good of him, Steve can only suppose. And that's not the only thing either.

“You're from Brooklyn?” he asks, because it's right there in the voice, unmistakable, more closely geographically identifiable than just a generic East Coast drawl. But this guy is around his own age, and he's never set eyes on him, and Steve knows _everyone_ \-- has near enough thrown down with and tried to _batter_ most everyone, the guys at least, too –- and he's _never_ set eyes on this guy.


	3. the piano ain't got no wrong notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can Steve do? The band needs a vocalist. This guy is good. And bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Thelonious Monk.

But it gets him a sharp glance and a smile. Jeez, but you could put this one on a movie poster in a tux and a dickie, the dames would love him. Probably the dames _do_ love him, specially when he's crooning at 'em. “That's right – used to be, at least. My folks moved out in fifth grade, when there was too many of us to fit in four rooms, and my sister went on strike from having to share a bedroom with my brother. Which I don't blame her for, he's a monkey crossed with a hog. My Dad got a rep position with the union, and they put a deposit down on a little row home in Bay Ridge. But, yep. You too, sounds like?”

That explains that, then. He opens his mouth to say so, but Tony jumps from behind the double bass and horns in on the conversation. Claps his arm around Steve's shoulder –- up on the tips of his toes a little to do it –- and grins at the new guy. “That's right, Steve here's a Brooklyn native too. Two of you in the band, how we going to cope? We'll have the ladies fainting left and right with the both of you up on stage. You know, Steve here's the lady-killer of the band--“ and he slaps Steve's back while Steve gazes at him impassively.

Sometimes it's best just to let Tony run his mouth until he exhausts himself, like you would with a toddler. Yeah, there he goes again -- “Steve Rogers, playboy of the western world and the Romeo of Company B! Or was, until one of the local blue-blood babes got her hooks into him, eh Steve? How is Peggy by the way? Still teaching you pinky-finger tea-drinking and U versus non-U Brit lingo?”

Steve puts a hand on Tony's face, and gently pushes it away, knowing Tony'll take no offence. It's not as if he actually expects anyone to listen to him, most of the time. When he turns back to auditioning-fellow, it's all eyes on him, and the guy looks thoughtful, reserved. He has a hand to his chin, stroking it gently, but his dark/light eyes flicker back up to catch Steve's. “Rogers? That's familiar, I... Say, you wouldn't be part of the Catholic Rogers in Bushwick? No relation to May Rogers?”

Well, you enlist, you commit to fight for your country, do or die, you come halfway around the world to drink weak tea and go through basic training, sweating and suffering, and who do you meet but a boy from the old backyard? It's good news, right? It should be good news, right. Steve smiles, uneasily. “Careful, buddy, that's my mother you're talking about,” he says lightly. “You lived in Bushwick?”

All pleased, this fella is relaxed with his shoulders swaying in close, with a pleased grin and eyes twinkling. It's a shade less cocky and more warm than a moment ago, but Steve isn't sure he likes it any better. Even though it's nice, real nice. Maybe he likes it a little too much. “Right over in the next borough,” the guy agrees, and sticks his hand out, just... twinkling away at Steve. Like they're best buds or something, like that's ever going to happen.

Steve has Sam, and that position is already filled in his life. And anyway, he knows better by now than to get too pally sometimes. Depends on the guy: sometimes it's better to keep a civil distance. “James Barnes,” the guy says, and shakes, and that's it, they're buddies now whether Steve likes it or not. “That's James _Buchanan_ Barnes –- and with the intermarriage rates back home, we're probably semi-demi-half cousins –- but you can call me Bucky, buddy.” Yeah, he's got a flair, a way with him, Steve's old gran would put it. It could probably get annoying up close and working together, too much. Steve gives him name rank and serial number, or the minimum detail anyhow, too conscious of the heat and firm grip of that broad strong shortish hand. He shakes with Tony too, who beams at him, and Sam and Phil and Clint come and jump off the elevated bandstand, too, and amiably make nice.

“Well, want to show us what you can do?” Tony asks. And thank God for someone who'll get down to business, 'cause Steve is lost, now.


End file.
